


Gray Territory

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The need never really goes away and Sam's found a way to sate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gray Territory

“Dean...?”  

He had been expecting Sammy’s plea; in fact, if Dean was keeping track correctly, Sam was running a few minutes behind his usual schedule.  He thought it was so funny how Sam still felt it necessary to ask, as if Dean would revoke the permission he’d obviously bestowed months ago.  It had kind of become part of their nightly routine; check for injuries, grab a beer, clean guns, watch tv, grab another beer, shower, brush teeth, watch some more tv, bed.  Sam’s little fix usually fit somewhere between watching tv and bed--just depended on the night, really.

Dean was thankful, actually, that it had become a nightly thing.  This way Sam didn’t need so much at a time and he didn’t feel dizzy the next few days.  He’d even gone so far as to stock up on iron supplements from a local drugstore.   _Anything for Sammy_.

“Dean... Can I?”  Sam’s breath was soft against the back of his neck and Dean tried so hard to repress the shiver that ran down his spine.  Just because he had consented to it and knew that it was helping Sammy, and didn’t mind it happening, _did not_  mean he was  _okay_ with it.  It still freaked him the fuck out--his freaky little brother, right?  Not that he said any of that to Sam.  No, definitely not.  

And it didn’t help that every time they did this... other things happened to.  Things that he didn’t analyze too closely; things he enjoyed but would never admit to; things that were definitely wrong, even more so than Sam’s obscene need for blood (particularly that of a demonic nature).

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean smiled and slid further back onto the bed, turning to face Sam.  “Of course, Sammy,” he said soft and easy.   _You know you never have to ask_.

The knife was already in Sam’s hand, gleaming in the dim lamplight, and Dean wasn’t going to think too hard about the way his dick gave a little twitch of excitement at the flash of metal.   _Pavlovian, much?_

Sam hesitated, never wanting to actually make the first move, always wanting Dean to give consent again and again and again.  It grated Dean’s nerves sometimes, and it wasn’t like he didn’t get something out of it either.  There was certainly a mutual give and take here.   _Symbiosis_ , his geek brother would say.  Erotically co-dependent, as Zach put it.  He’d had  _no idea_.  Sam got a quick -- if somewhat less satisfying -- fix, Dean got the satisfaction of helping his little brother through yet another hurdle in the ceaseless-hardship that was their lives, and they both got off on it.  

Sometimes they jerked off; sometimes they jerked each other off; sometimes they fucked; and sometimes Sam managed to cut Dean in just the right spot so that ever pull of Sam’s mouth went straight to his older brother’s dick and Dean would come in his pants like a fucking teenager.  

Dean liked doing this every night, every other night; it kept Sam in a much better mood (and god knows the moody bitch needed it), never getting caught up in the twitchy, impatient, jonesing attitude associated with withdrawal.  Sam claimed it was the blood that made him feel better, took the edge off the never-quite-gone need but Dean figured it was just the proverbial “you need to get laid” syndrome.  Nothing like a good orgasm to keep you in high spirits.

“C’mon, Sam, it’s getting late...” Dean reached out, gripping the wrist of the hand holding the knife and pulling it closer to him.  “Where?”  He glanced up at Sam.

His little brother swallowed reflexively, the lines in his neck gliding in a way that had Dean’s dick paying attention again.  Sam’s voice was even softer when he finally answered, as if he were afraid that his words would break the world, “Your arm’s fine...”

Dean kept talking like he was discussing the weather, “Forearm?”  He laid both arms, bottoms up, out straight and waited.  There were still bandaids covering two older scabs and one thin scar, pink in it’s infancy, decorating the pale skin.  There were quite a few other scars, lighter in color, patterned along his arms; it was a convenient place.

Sam fidgeted, scooting a little closer, and gripped Dean’s left arm.  The sharp tip of the blade rested against the light skin, veins just barely visible beneath, and he gave Dean one last glance, silently asking  _again_.  Dean met it evenly, not bothering to voice his consent again.  So Sam kept pressing the blade against the skin, harder and harder until it finally gave, pain blossoming through Dean’s forearm, and blood welled up around the silver gleam of the knife.  Sam pulled the blade just enough to make a slit, not even a quarter of an inch in length, and then the knife was tossed to the side and -- _yet again_  with that stupid, questioning gaze -- he bent down, pulling Dean’s arm up to meet him.  Sam’s tongue was hot on Dean’s sore skin, lapping the trail of blood that had started to roll over the curve of muscle and following it up to the source, and his lips wrapped tight over the cut.

Dean couldn’t help the gasp that always let loose at Sam‘s first pull, drawing more blood and making the edges of the cut tear further, like old denim jeans worn too thin.  The pleasure/pain of it ebbed and flowed with Sam’s pulls, and Dean was always fascinated by how easily Sam found the rhythm of Dean’s heartbeat and sucked in time with it.

Reaching up, Dean laced his fingers through Sam’s hair, and the moan Sam let go of at the touch went straight to Dean’s dick.  He palmed his hard-on through the thin cotton of his boxer shorts, biting his bottom lip.  

With a breathless sigh and wet, sloppy sound, Sam let go of the cut.  He lapped at it lazily for a few minutes, catching the last few drops that made their way through before clotting agents took over, and then he looked up at Dean, down to Dean’s hand on himself, and back to Dean.  He smiled.  Sam moved closer to his older brother, pressing his lips to the soft skin on Dean’s neck, mouthing at it, sucking at it, kissing and nipping.  Dean was making soft, needful sounds in the back of his throat and Sam, who had already been hard to begin with, was aching now.

“Sammy...,” he definitely wasn’t begging.

Sam answered by pressing one hand against Dean’s chest, forcing him back against the mattress, and sliding on leg between his brother’s.  He rolled his hips downward, pressing tight against the body beneath him, and reveled in the way his moan was echoed back to him from Dean’s mouth.  He pulled Dean’s arm back up to his mouth and licked another small trail of blood that had managed to leak out.  

He released Dean’s arm and leaned down, warm flesh flush with his brother’s feverish body, and kissed a path along his jawline.  “You taste so good, Dean,” his breath hot and voice low against Dean’s ear.  It wasn’t the sexy tone Dean knew from when Sam fucked him--it was more like the voice Sam knew could catch more flies than vinegar.  It made Dean want to do anything and everything Sam asked of him.  It reminded him of his  _little_ brother and just how much Dean’s whole life centered around that scrawny little kid.  

“Dean...” Sam’s voice was still pleading as he ran his tongue over the sharp plains of Dean’s collarbone, “More?”  He pulled himself up so he was level with Dean, eyes locked and vulnerable. _Like I’m going to say no._

“Anything, Sammy,” Dean sighed, breathless.  As an afterthought, “Please?” and a telling roll of his hips.

Sam smiled, “Anything, Dean.”   _There’s my little Sammy._

Sam kissed him then, soft but passionate, tongue slipping easily between Dean’s lips and rolling against the older Winchester’s own.  Dean moaned, the rumble enough to shake through Sam’s ribs, and the younger brother pressed their hips together again, trying to get that feeling back, keep Dean moaning all night if he could.  Sam’s fingers ghosted over Dean’s flesh, teasing and pressing and pulling; he caught Dean’s nipples, twisted and pinched, he ran his thumb over the sharp dent of Dean’s hipbone, rubbed his palm along the length of Dean’s cock, and finally wormed their way up underneath Dean, wrapping around him in a tight embrace.

Then Dean’s world tilted and, when his head stopped spinning, he realized he was straddling Sam’s lap now and his little brother had retrieved the knife from where ever it had gone.  Dean pressed himself down against Sam’s dick, feeling the hard length push back against Dean’s own erection, and he moaned again.  

The knife momentarily forgotten, Sam gripped both sides of Dean’s hips and pulled them down, hard, at the same time grinding up against Dean’s ass, cock sliding up and against his brother’s.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean gasped between hungry kisses, tongue mimicking their hips’ movements.  Sam could only smile and hum his consent; too busy focusing on the gorgeous friction that was setting off sparks of pleasure between their hips.  The taste of Dean in his mouth -- his spit, his sweat, his skin, his blood,  _him_ \-- was intoxicating and Sam felt a tug inside him that begged with one single word, more.

His hand found the knife again, knowing where it was with the same assurance as he knew where his feet were, and pulled away from Dean’s mouth long enough to make sure his brother saw it; never wanting to take Dean by surprise, never wanting to spook his brother away from this, never wanting a repeat of previous experiences, the rejection still a fresh pain in Sam’s core.

Dean stared at it, as if he wasn’t sure what it meant, but eventually nodded, stilling his hips.  Sam kissed him again, thank you, and pressed the tip of the bleed against the firm flesh right above Dean’s collarbone, closer to the shoulder (less noticeable if his shirt’s collar should move) and punctured to tissue in one swift flick of his wrist.  Dean hissed softly as he bled but his hips hitched with it, anyway.  Sam’s smile was something wicked as he pressed his lips to the cut and sucked, hard.  The moan let loose from Dean’s mouth could make a whore blush and it went straight to Sam’s dick, spurring his hips back into their previous rutting movement.   

His tongue pressed hard against Dean’s skin, throat pulling more and more of his brother’s blood into his mouth.  Even if it wasn’t demonic, the fact that it was  _Dean_ made it almost just as revitalizing; Dean’s hips grinding a staccato rhythm against his own certainly made it just as stimulating.  

One of Dean’s hands had a white-knuckle grip on Sam’s shoulder, but the other had curled around to weave his fingers back into Sam’s hair and tug; not tugging away, just tugging for the sheer pleasure of it.  And god, did Sam love that.  His mouth broke away from the cut of Dean’s shoulder and moved straight to Dean’s mouth, paying no mind to the dark color bleeding down Dean’s front.  

Dean could taste the salty, copper taste of his skin and his blood on Sam’s tongue and it probably would have frightened him if he’d had half a mind left in his skull--but as it stood right now, all the blood had drained out of his head and straight downstairs.  One of Sam’s hands reached between them, fiddling with their shorts for some reason--

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Dean growled against Sam’s shoulder as their cocks came together, freed from their boxers.  And _fuck, maybe it’s a good thing you’re overgrown_ ; Sam held them both together in one hand and his jerks kept pace with the grinding of their hips.  Dean couldn’t breathe when Sam’s lips found that cut again and sucked the clotting away in exchange for fresher blood; the pleasure pulsing out at the same time as the pain bit into it.  Every pull from Sam’s mouth matched the rapid beat of Dean’s heart which matched the jerk of his hand  which matched the rock of their hips which matched the silent mantra of  _Sam_.  

It took four pulls, just four, and Dean was gone, painting his stomach, his chest, Sam’s hand in wet, sticky strings.  Sam followed shortly after.  

They didn’t move, keeping close together as they bathed in the afterglow of it all.  Endorphins ran through Dean so heavily he felt vertigo rising up his spine--the room wasn’t spinning when he opened his eyes, but he sure felt like it was.  He must’ve made some kind of noise or movement because Sam sighed deeply and, wrapping his arms tight around his brother, fell backwards, dragging Dean down with him.  

Dean wriggled onto his side, letting Sam’s shoulder pillow his head.  His younger brother’s breathing was heavy and even and enough to lull Dean into an easy sleep. 

Sam never needed to ask permission for this.  Dean knew why he asked, and the guilt ate at him with every hurt, pleading look Sam gave him, but as Dean reached an arm across Sam’s broad chest, in an uncharacteristic display of affection, he hoped that Sam knew how much Dean loved him and that Dean would always be there, regardless of consequence. 


End file.
